My mother passed away at the age of 95. I sat with her, her body still warm, but her spirit already elsewhere. It wasn't frightening; it wasn't sad; it just was. We’re born; we live; and then we die.
Over two months have gone by and the image of her lying there in the hospital bed, head turned to one side, eyes closed and white hair disheveled, keeps coming back to me. It has added a certain urgency to my life, and become an antidote to procrastination. Now, whenever I want to put something off, the image returns. I'm seventy years old. How many years do I have left to accomplish all those things I want to do in this lifetime? I’d better get moving!